Tink Tink Tink

Its been raining this past week. Hard. When it finally seems like it’s going to let up and the sun will have its moment to shine bright in a cloudless sky, there is another crack of thunder and the rain pounds harder on the old tin roof. Tink Tink Tink. We have been saved from the wet by this roof. No matter how many old stories my mother used to tell me about how the sounds of the rain on the metal shingles would sooth her, the noise still rattles me down to my bones. It doesn’t sound comforting to me. It sounds akin to nails on a chalk board. The sound of death tapping on your window beckoning you to let him in. And it just never lets up.

Its been 15 days since we hunkered down in this old barn. The days slowing to a halt after my adrenal gland finally stopped pumping adrenalin into my blood. Don’t get me wrong, I have been very happy to have a clean dry place to rest before we have to head out again. Well I don’t know if I should call it clean. There hasn’t been a worker to tend to his old barn in a very long time. Since the fighting started, many old farms have gone the same way as this one. Twenty-seven years of dust and wear putting pressure on every beam, four-by-four and corner brace that is holding this old barn up after all this time. The horse stalls still un-mucked from the last animal to call it a home. It took awhile to get used to the putrid air. The scent of old animal waste and mildew is rich in the atmosphere. And the rain. The rain just makes it worse.

We’re on route to make it to the West right now, somewhere near what used to be Oregon. Jax keeps telling me that he thinks we’re somewhere near Kentucky. But I think we’re closer. I can’t begin to grapple with the truth that we are not even close to getting to Oregon. That every day that I wake up to the sound of the rain pattering on this old barn’s tin roof is another day that we wont be able to get any closer. Another day with grumbling stomachs. Another day closer to the certain death that might await us. Trapped in this god forsaken old barn.

I remember being a child in school learning about the people who hiked and traveled the old Oregon Trail. They wrote books about it, made games for it. It was a scary thought. Traveling with your family, only to see them picked off one by one from the harsh climate, desperate cold and wicked hunger. It gripped me as a child while learning about it. I played the games. I read the books. I couldn’t get enough of the disaster that took place during those people’s short brutal lives. And now the tables have turned. The world tipped on its’ axis. Somehow, I feel that a little girl years from now will find herself engulfed in our story. Playing games with our characters. Laughing with her friends when her character gets trapped and starves in the old barn. My mind keeps racing at the thought of it. I can almost hear the children saying “Dammit, I hate that barn! It’s the worst part of the game!” And they would be right. But I keep telling myself that if I want to believe my premonitions, I have to believe that we will get out of here. Or at least that some of us will.

There are 9 of us now. Jax, Marcus, Luci, Jesse, Baby Bou, William, D, Alice, and myself. When we started traveling, we were in Georgia. It took us days to pack and get ready to leave. But when we finally did, we were quick to get out of the city. It was what we thought to be the riskiest part of our trip across the old U.S.A. And we still might be right. That first day we didn’t lose anyone but as we got further into the country we’d already lost four people. Four family members. Four friends. Those first losses were hard to grapple with. But it got easier. What started as a group of 22 became quick a group of 9. And as the days went on, so did we. Until we got stuck here in this damned old barn.

Our rations have all but been depleted. Marcus and Jax wanted to go out and look for supplies in the town, but we talked them down and they scavenged in the old house that watches over this old barn. They were able to get some old canned foods. Enough to keep our strength up for another day or so. But if it doesn’t stop raining within the next few days, I’m not sure we’re going to make it. I’ve gotten so used to the feeling of empty in my stomach. I dream of food now. What a crazy thing to say.

Tink Tink Tink. The rain is pounding harder than usual now. I’m hoping that it means that the clouds are tiring themselves out. Maybe it’s dumping one last load of wet on us before the sun shines bright tomorrow morning. The air feels heavy. Almost like each oxygen molecule is laden with a fine mist of H2O. Like pea soup. My grand mother used to say that. “Oh boy it’s as thick as pea soup out there!”. It makes me chuckle thinking about her. Almost glad she died before we could take this trip. I couldn’t imagine her face thinning out and the ridges of her spine poking through her thin dress. It’s not a sight any human should have to see. Her loved ones withering away until there is nothing left.

But once we get to Oregon everything will be different. They have their own tiny country there now. Since the fighting started between the states, a lot of places have attempted to regain stability. But none like Oregon. People tell tales all day, dreaming about what it will be like with a functioning government. In a place where there are laws that everyone follows and people who enforce them in a fair and just way. Basically, the way it was in the old U.S.A before the fighting. Twenty-seven years for people to realize how good they had it. Typical humanity. Never seeing what you got until its gone.

I wonder if I will feel that way about this old barn when we finally get out. I wonder if we will get stuck in the bitter cold, with not even a tree to cover our heads and I’ll miss this old barn. If I’ll miss the Tink Tink Tink of the rain pattering the metal roof. I try not to think about it to much. But sometimes I wonder if we should just stay here. 15 days is a long time to stay in once place without anyone attempting to hunt you down. With no break-ins or robberies. With no murders or fighting. I sure hope were not like the old U.S.A. I sure hope were not going to regret leaving this old barn and realize how good we had it after it is too late. Tink Tink Tink.